


The Case of the Missing Legs

by oswhine



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: Henry recruits the Frye twins to investigate a murder of one of their own, but it turns out they aren't the only ones on the hunt for the murderer...





	1. The Morgue

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted anything on here in ages, and in fact I wrote this a similarly long time ago, but since it's complete and I'm fairly satisfied with it I thought I might as well post it.

The Frye twins, drinking their morning tea (black, three sugars), had no idea they would be in jail in a few hours. One of the Rooks was just closing his morning report, shifting from one foot to the other as if trying to shake off the uncomfortable formality:“And a letter arrived for the two of you,” he finished, handing it to Evie, who nodded her thanks. 

“A letter! From who? What does it say?” Jacob asked eagerly. The Rook left to join the other members of the gang, those who were taking a well-earned rest on the train after a long night’s patrol. He would have a cup of tea of his own, and a game of poker. 

“It’s a postcard from Ned - he’s at the seaside on holiday,” Evie said, eyes darting over the writing. Jacob slumped back in his chair. “It looks nice,” Evie mused, showing Jacob the picture on the front - an artist’s rendition of blue sea and sky and a pert-lipped couple, the woman with roses that seemed to be growing on her hat, the man wearing one in his buttonhole. “Maybe we should take a holiday.” She took a sip of her tea. 

“I don’t want a holiday, I want something exciting to happen!” Jacob moaned. “Being a gang leader is boring when you’re the only gang in town. Every morning we hear the same thing: the past day and night was uneventful, except for maybe an amateur pickpocket or a missing cat.” 

There was a single, sharp knock on the carriage door, and Henry entered. He was one of the few people who could catch a moving train; Ned Wynert could do it: he had a train of his own, and was therefore able to casually hop from one to another as if he were jumping over a puddle in the street. Robert Topping could do it, with a wink and the words: “Another trick from my carnival days.” But Henry was the only one who knocked. 

“I bear bad news today, my friends,” Henry began, his face serious, “one of our Brothers has been killed.” 

Evie stood up. “What?” Ever since Starrick had died and the Assassins had come back to London, they had all felt like kings, or how kings were supposed to feel: all-powerful, uncontested, and, as Jacob liked to point out, filthy rich. “But there’s been no sign that the Templars intend to take back London!” 

“This might be the sign,” Henry said, but he was frowning. “But I fear it may have been committed by someone other than the Templars.” 

“Why do you say that?” Jacob asked. He was lounging on the chaise, legs up, one arm resting on the back of it. 

“By the way he was murdered; it was most unlike something a Templar would do.” Henry, paused, sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is no other way to say it but bluntly: he was shot in the head, and after death, his legs were removed.” 

The twins both gasped, and Evie put a gloved hand to her mouth. “Shit,” Jacob muttered to himself, swinging his legs to the floor and sitting upright. He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the image like a dog shakes off water. 

“You said ‘removed’.” Evie quoted, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “What do you mean by that?” 

“His legs are gone. They weren’t with his body when it was found.” 

“Maybe a dog ate them?” Jacob suggested, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“Now is no time for your morbid sense of humor,” Evie scolded. “This is serious. Who would want to kill an Assassin, and why did they kill him so grotesquely?” 

“Perhaps it was a Templar, trying to disguise the fact that it was a Templar that killed him.” Jacob said. 

But Evie shook her head. ““No, a Templar would kill him in a way that let us know it was a Templar that killed him. They would want to make us know that they had made a dent in our defenses. They would turn his murder into a threat against the whole Order.”

Jacob shrugged. “So, Henry, what are you doing about it?”

Henry smiled. “Ah. Well, I thought as you two are so gifted, that you would investigate.” 

“Oh, did you? Well, Evie and I don’t work for compliments. Though it wouldn’t hurt to remind me how charming and handsome I am every now and then,” Jacob said. But he stood up. 

“And we’d need more information,” Evie added, slipping on her gloves. 

“I knew you’d do it,” Henry grinned. “Yes, I can tell you more. The Assassin’s name was Arthur King.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a scrap of paper. “This is what he looked like,” he continued, showing it to the both of them. And man with a scar cracked across his cheek stared back at them from the piece of paper. “He joined the Brotherhood when he was a small child, and had worked his way up to importance at the time of his death, with many successful missions tucked into his belt. But since we settled in London, he had become lazy, and neglected his duties. His body was found at dawn yesterday in a park in Westminster.”

Evie had her head tilted slightly and Jacob was still studying the sketch of Arthur King when he finished.

“I say we should examine the body. Isn’t that what they do first in all those detective novels?” Jacob said, tucking the slip of paper into one of his pockets. 

“That may prove to be difficult,” Henry said, smiling wryly. “You see, the police have removed the body from the scene. It rests currently in the morgue at Scotland Yard. To examine it, you shall have to sneak into the station.” 

“Oh Greenie, you always have to complicate things. Can’t we just get Abberline to help sneak us in? We could borrow some of his disguises, I’m sure.” Jacob sniggered. 

“I don’t think Sergeant Abberline would be willing to take such a risk,” Henry said, frowning at Jacob. “No, you two will have to make do on your own this time.” 

“What, is it too much of a challenge for you, Jacob?” Evie teased, jostling his shoulder. “I guess I’ll just have to go on my own, then.”

Jacob knew he was being baited, but he also knew he would bite. “Never.” 

“Alright, then.” Henry took a roll of blueprints from his bag and spread them on a table, smoothing them down with his hands. The twins stood on either side of him, looking over his shoulders as he explained: “This is the layout of the police station. I have already studied it, and I have divined that the best place of entry is through the holding cell, here.” He pointed at one of the rooms. 

“Woah, hold up, Greenie.” Jacob said, standing up straight. “You want us to break _in_ to a jail?”

Henry looked up at him. “Too much of a challenge for you?” He said. Evie chuckled. 

Jacob held up his hands in mock surrender and Henry continued, “the building Scotland Yard is located in wasn’t built to be a police station; instead of bars, the cell has glass windows. These windows are high up; no criminal, not even one standing on a bench, could reach them. The policeman have a special hook with which to open the windows, and they are almost always open: there’s no rank of man who smells worse than the criminal. Even more fortunate for you, the holding cell is situated right next to the morgue, and can be easily unlocked from the inside. But the prisoners have all their belongings, from their hairpins to their socks, taken from them when they first reach the station, so escape for them is as close and untouchable as their reflections in the mirror. Think you can handle it?” 

“Of course we can.” Evie grinned at Jacob, who rolled his eyes.

So that crisp October morning, the smell of bonfires in the air, found the two of them sitting on top of the roof of Scotland Yard. 

“You ready?” Jacob asked his sister. 

She grinned. “If you are.” 

They both pulled up their hoods and swung down onto the wall so that they were perched beside one of the windows to the holding cell. Cautiously, hands gripping tight to the brick, Evie leaned over and peered in. There were three bored-looking prisoners in the cell: one lying on a bench, taking an afternoon nap and snoring; one leaning against the wall and whistling ‘God Save the Queen’; and one sitting on the dirty floor, yawning and scratching himself. A policeman stood with his back to the cell, reading a newspaper. It was him that Evie targeted, deftly shooting a sleeping dart into his sunburnt neck. The two prisoners who were awake looked up in surprise as the guard slumped back against the bars, and the whistling stopped. “What the devil!” Exclaimed one. He was even more surprised a moment later when a hooded figure jumped down from the window above him. “Who the hell are you?” The sleeping prisoner had now woken up and was looking very confused. 

Evie ignored the three men, pushing past them and taking out her lock picking tools. She had just began to work on the lock when the first prisoner fell to the floor behind her. Within moments, the other two were down too, fast asleep, and Jacob was standing behind her. “What’s taking you so long? Henry said this was an easy lock.” 

“Henry was exaggerating,” Evie said through gritted teeth. “Now shut up for a minute, please.” 

Jacob took up whistling the anthem where the prisoner had left off, shifting aside one of the unconscious men with his boot so he could sit on the bench. 

The lock clicked. “Got it!” Evie declared, pushing the door open with a creak and stepping over the policeman’s body. Jacob followed her, stopping briefly to place the man’s hat, which had fallen off and rolled across the floor when he collapsed, back on his head. 

The next door along had a sign beside it stamped with the word MORGUE. The door was unlocked, and the two Assassins slipped through, quiet as ghosts, and descended the stairs into the room. A body was laid out under a white sheet on the slab table in the middle of the room, but they didn’t have time to see more than that; behind them came the sound of the door opening again. Evie and Jacob darted quickly into the corner between the stairs and the wall. It was a good enough hiding place so that whoever was coming down the stairs wouldn’t immediately spot them, but it was bad enough that if he stood in center of the room he would easily be able to see two crouched Assassins lurking in the corner. 

When they were able to see the blue of the approaching policeman’s uniform, Evie nodded to Jacob. He moved silently until he was behind the man with his hand over his mouth. “Hush now,” he whispered in his ear, and the policeman’s knees gave way under him and he slipped to the floor, unconscious.

Evie stood and walked to the table, removing the sheet in one motion, as if she were a magician uncovering her grandest trick. They knew immediately that it was Arthur King: the body on the slab had no legs. 

Jacob whistled. “Those are quite the wounds! Whoever did him in left him without a leg to stand on!” He looked at Evie expectantly but she didn’t even glance up. 

“Focus, Jacob. We don’t have time for your sadistic pleasures.” She reached her gloved hands out towards the body, using her eagle vision at the same time to try to see what the police couldn’t. Jacob was admiring the bullet wound in Arthur’s forehead. “The murderer was a good shot,” he commented, “Got him right between the eyebrows. And don’t say that I’m not taking this seriously enough -" he shot at Evie “- that’s important information.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Evie smirked, examining the dead man’s left forearm. “Hold on, what’s this?” 

Jacob came to stand beside her as she held up the corpse’s arm. “Is that a flower?” Jacob asked, squinting. On Arthur King’s wrist there was a tattoo, the outline of a drooping flower in black ink. 

“We’ll show this to Henry - he’ll know what is,” Evie said, slipping her notebook out of her coat and flipping it open to a blank page. 

“ _Of course_ we will,” Jacob taunted as she began to sketch, “Of course _Henry_ will know what it is.”

Evie ignored him. 

 

***

 

Half an hour later, they were in Henry’s shop, a few sleep darts less. “Done already?” He remarked as the twins entered. “What did you discover?” 

“Arthur King had a tattoo of a flower on one of his wrists. I thought you might know something about it,” Evie said, handing him her notebook. 

Henry frowned at the drawing, running a hand through his hair. “It’s an iris, the flower which signifies a message. This is the mark of an opium den in the East End.” The twins glanced at each other.

 _Opium?_ Mouthed Jacob. 

“They brand them like this when they haven’t paid a debt in a substantial amount of time,” Henry continued. “When the debt is paid in full, the petals are filled in.” 

“How do they get them to sit still to put the tattoo on?” Evie inquired. 

Henry shook his head. “They don’t even notice. They get them when they’re too fogged with opium, too far away to feel any pain or discomfort.” He sighed. “This is a sad sign. I had no idea that Arthur had gone so far astray.” 

Jacob took a step forward. “So you think this murder might be entirely unrelated to the Templars? That it’s drug-related?”

Henry looked at him. “I didn’t say that. But yes, it is a possibility.”

“You said this opium den was in the East End?” Evie said. 

Henry nodded. “It’s called The Red Lantern.” 

Jacob grinned. “Then let’s go have a word with them.” He turned on his heel and started towards the door. 

“Wait, Jacob - “ Henry caught him on the shoulder “- you’re still trying to find out who murdered Arthur, you don’t know for certain yet.” 

Jacob laughed over his shoulder. “Did you think I was going to go menace them? Oh, Greenie, you’re priceless.” And he walked out the door. 

“See you later, Henry.” Evie gave him a salute and a wink and left, joining her brother, the two scampering up the brick wall of Henry’s shop, Evie shouting, “Race you!” 

Autumn leaves fell on London as the sun sank behind the buildings. Store tenders closed up their shops and went home for the day, whistling, or with shoulders slumped and hands in empty pockets. Cats licked themselves in the last patches of sun that slipped between buildings. Wealthy children were called back inside, and beggar children roamed the streets free, taking the rotten apples that hadn’t been sold that day. Assassins slipped through dark alleyways. And somewhere close, a pair of severed legs began to decompose.


	2. The Opium Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob and Evie meet two strangers who are also invested in finding out who killed Arthur King.

Night had wrapped itself around them like a cloak by the time Evie and Jacob reached The Red Lantern. A chill fog had come with it and they had had to be careful not to take a stray step off a rooftop. Gas lamps shone, hazy, through the mist, and among them a single red light - 

“The Red Lantern,” Evie breathed. 

Jacob nodded at her and they dropped to the ground. They stepped beneath the red lantern that hung above the door of the opium den and into a small entrance room, another scarlet lantern hanging from the ceiling, giving the room a rose-coloured tinge. The air was sweet and thick. A young Chinese woman, about the same age as Evie and Jacob, approached them. 

“Good evening,” she said in a Chinese accent touched by the brash tones of Londoners, “I am Xiao Jie. What can I do for you?” The smile on her face was fixed, and she had the type of face that hid itself from you - unless she let you know it, you couldn’t have said if she was pretty, or plain, or ugly. It was a mask. 

“We believe our late brother, Arthur King, left some of his belongings here, and we’ve come to collect them.” Jacob bluffed, fingers crossed behind his back. 

She gave a slight bow. “My condolences. Your brother did leave some of his things behind here, but I am afraid your uncle and his friend have already come to collect them.”

“Our uncle? But -” Jacob blurted. 

Xiao Jie frowned a little. “I just assumed -”

“Oh yes, our good old uncle!” Evie said loudly, kicking Jacob in the back of the ankle while she spoke. He grimaced at her. “Are they still here?” 

The woman nodded. “Yes, they are in the back room. I’ll show you.” She beckoned and they followed her down a long corridor, doors open on either side, rooms full of smoke, men and women lying in a daze on mats on the floor. But they weren’t there to save half of London from themselves. Sometimes they had to make their hearts cold. Xiao Jie showed them through a door at the end of hallway before leaving them. 

Inside two men bent intently over a table, studying a collection of items. 

“Our uncle, I presume,” Jacob said, eyeing the men. “What are you doing here?”   
The two strangers looked up. One was tall and thin with dark eyes, the other shorter and more hesitant looking. “The same thing as you - investigating the murder of Arthur King,” the taller man said coolly. “But it begs the question: _why_ are you here? I wouldn’t think a brother-sister Assassin team would be the most likely candidates to be investigating a murder.”

The twins glanced at each other. They knew they were both thinking the same thing: How did he know so much about them? Was he a Templar spy? Jacob moved to take a step forward but Evie threw her arm out to caution him, as if to say, Wait. We don’t know enough yet.

The tall man seemed to sense their uncertainty. “Fear not, my friends,” he said, smiling. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr John Watson. Deductions are how I make my daily bread. As to how I knew you were related, my dear sir and miss, that was easy to tell: I have made a study of the physical similarities between siblings. That, and you said ‘our’ instead of ‘my’ uncle,” he said, nodding at Jacob. “I thought at first you were criminals: you are used to sneaking around using London’s less-patrolled pathways: the rooftops. Your gloves say it all: the fabric is worn in places conducive to climbing. I am sure that if I examined your shoes I would find similar evidence. Then there is the fact that there is the smell of potassium nitrate about you, which is the key chemical used in smoke bombs. But then I thought your clothes were too expensive for you to be petty criminals, and I recognized your distinctive attire and realised you belonged to the secretive organisation known as the Assassins.” 

“You saw all that in less than a minute?” Jacob said, impressed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. All you said is true. I’m Jacob Frye, and this is my sister, Evie.” 

Evie hung back, eyes narrowed. She knew that a man who could know all that with just a glance was dangerous; and she also knew that even if you know a man’s name, he is still a stranger, and not to be trusted. 

“How did you come to be investigating this case, Mr Holmes?” She asked, arms crossed. 

“We were engaged by Mr King’s widow,” Holmes replied, “And I see now - Arthur King was an Assassin, was he not?” 

Evie nodded. 

“That’s interesting. And before you ask, Watson,” said Holmes, looking back at his friend, “the Assassins are an ancient brotherhood, formed before Christ, whose goal is to quietly engineer peace and freedom.” 

“Really, Holmes,” Watson blustered, “mind-reading! What’s next, fortune-telling?” 

“You are just easy to predict, Watson,” Holmes said affectionately. 

“Can we get back to the murder?” Evie asked impatiently. “The proprietress said that Mr King left some of his belongings here. Have you looked at them?” 

“Of course,” Holmes said smoothly, “They are here, on this table.” The four of them clustered round the tabletop, on which was laid out: 

A matchbook from a public house called The Dancing Bear;   
A handkerchief with the initials AK embroidered in the corner;  
A notepad;   
And a tarnished cufflink. 

Jacob picked up the notepad and flipped through it, grunting. “A fat lot of use this is, there’s nothing in it!” 

“That’s where you are wrong,” Holmes said, reaching over to take the notebook from Jacob in his thin fingers. “I believe this notebook to be very significant in uncovering the true fate of Arthur King.” He opened it to the first page. “You see here, this indentation? Someone has written on the page above and torn it out. The impressions of what was written can still be revealed. Watson, do you have a pencil?”   
“I have one,” Evie said, taking it out of her pocket and handing it to him. 

They all held their breaths as Holmes rubbed the pencil across the paper. “There we have it,” he said, lifting the notepad up to the light. “It says, ‘J - I must see you. Meet me at the park tonight at midnight.’” 

“So this note was written to the murderer!” Watson exclaimed. 

“Possibly, Watson, possibly.” Holmes turned to the twins. “How would you like to strike a deal? A collaboration, of sorts?” 

“What sort of deal?” Evie asked, watching him closely. 

“Watson and I share our information with you, and you, in turn, share yours with us.” 

"Alright,” said Evie smoothly in a voice that Jacob knew very well. It promised lies, but the slight shift in her tone could only have been picked up by some who had known her all their life, who was part of her, and had heard her lies, from little childhood fibs to risky bluffs.  
Evie was very good at lying. Their father had always said she had a silver tongue, and their grandmother had always said she should cut it out. Their father had laughed at that and said no, that wouldn’t do - it was a good skill for her to have. “Not if she’s going to be a lady,” her grandmother had protested. But they all knew - Evie and Jacob, their grandmother and father - that Evie wasn’t going to be a lady.

She told Holmes only what he already knew, and what he didn’t, she lied about: she told him they were working independently from the rest of the Assassins, because Arthur hadn’t been important enough to care about, and neither were they; she told him they hadn’t seen the body; she told him it was their first time working such a case.

Then Holmes told them what Arthur’s widow had weepily related to him: that her husband, according to her, had no enemies, and had often been away from home, either at the opium den or his job as a ‘pest exterminator.’ Jacob smirked at that. 

“They know there’s something we’re not telling them,” Jacob muttered to his sister after they’d said their goodbyes to Holmes and Watson, agreeing to meet at The Dancing Bear the next day, “and they’re keeping their cards close to their chest in turn.”   
Evie smiled. “Luckily, unlike you, I’ve always been good at poker.”


	3. The Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evie and Jacob do some more investigating, and the plot, as they say, thickens.

Late morning light glanced through the windows of The Dancing Bear, casting lace-like patterns on the grimy floor. The public house was empty: chairs unoccupied, tables bare but for sticky rings made by last night’s beer mugs. The only man inside was the bartender, wiping mugs with a rag, and the four people who had just stepped through the door, blocking the gray light: a man in a deerstalker hat; a trim man who stood stiffly with the bearing of a military man; and a girl and a boy who wore matching half smirks on their faces. 

Jacob showed the bartender the sketch of Arthur King Henry had given him. “Do you know this man?” 

The bartender scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I saw him just the other day. Shifty character. He sat at one of the back tables, in the shadows, with his lady friend.” 

“A lady?” Evie said sharply. “What did she look like?” 

The man shrugged. “I dunno, she had a veil covering her face.”

Holmes gave the bartender his card and instructed him to contact him if he remembered anything. “A dead end,” he mused, as they walked out of the pub into the rain. 

“Disappointing.” 

“I say we should search the park next,” Jacob said, pulling his hood up, “before the rain washes all the evidence away. Isn’t that what you would do, Mr Holmes?” 

Holmes smiled. “In a way. I wasn’t planning to search the park myself, of course.”

“Speak plainly, sir,” Evie said, irritated. She didn’t like Holmes’ smug, superior manner. She had written in her notebook the previous night: _Jacob and I could solve the case easily without his help. Unfortunately, Jacob is too enamored with the man to see that._

“He means his Irregulars,” Watson spoke up. 

“His what?” Evie and Jacob said at the same time. 

“My Baker Street Irregulars,” Holmes elaborated, hailing a cab. “They are a group of street urchins in my employ. Children make the best spies, you know, especially the unwanted ones. People so often pretend not to notice them that they really do not notice them.” 

“Just like Clara and the children of Babylon Alley!” Jacob exclaimed, and it was Holmes and Watson’s turn to look perplexed. 

“They sound very similar to your own Irregulars, Mr Holmes,” Evie supplied, “Excepting the fact that they work for themselves.” 

“Perhaps the two groups can work together then, just as we are,” Holmes said, climbing into the cab, “Send a few of them to the park and we’ll see what they can find between them and my Irregulars. We will reconvene back here later. Until then, I need time to contemplate this case. Come, Watson.” The Doctor tipped his hat to them and joined his friend, the cab pulling away from the curb with a whinny from the horse. 

“Need a ride?” Another cab driver called out to the twins. 

“No, thanks,” Evie grinned, “We can walk.” 

And they went, running against the rain which splattered on their cheeks, over rooftops and chimneys, past men with black umbrellas and the warm glow of windows, to Babylon Alley. 

***

Clara and the other orphans were huddled in doorways, blankets stitched together from old socks and other discarded clothes wrapped around them, but their leader stood when she saw Jacob and Evie. 

“Do you have a job for us?” She called out. “There is nothing more beastly than sitting still, without purpose, in the cold and the rain.” 

“As a matter of fact, we do,” said Jacob. “Have you heard anything recently about a rather grisly murder?” 

“Oh, all the time! Just yesterday there was a washerwoman drowned in her own tub, a man killed in a sword duel over a lady, and a boy who shot his own father through the head over a game of chess.” The girl listed them off on her fingers, glowing with enthusiasm. 

“I see you have the same morbid fascination as Jacob,” Evie remarked, kneeling down to be closer to Clara, “But we’re thinking of a specific one, the murder of a man a few days ago in Westminster. His legs were cut off.” 

“Yes, I remember that one! We all liked that one, didn’t we?” Clara said, addressing her gang of strays. They all nodded, none of them wanting to leave their patchwork blankets. “What about it? Do you want us to find the legs for you? We’ve already thought of at least fifteen places where they might be!” 

“It’s much more dull than that, I’m afraid,” Evie said, smiling. “You know the park where it took place?” 

“Of course! We all went over there to see if we could see the blood, but they’d already cleaned it up.” 

“Perfect! We need you to go back to the park and see if you can find anything - not blood, but clues. Ask people if they saw anything, look around, leave no stone unturned. Got it?”   
Clara nodded. 

“Only a few of you need go, as they’ll be another group of children there as well - the Baker Street Irregulars.” Evie told her. 

“Oh, _them_ ,” said Clara, wrinkling her nose. “They think themselves all high and mighty just because their employer is some fancy detective gentleman. But if you say so, miss, I’m sure we’ll manage.” 

“And the rest of you can go find shelter on our train,” Evie said, speaking to the grubby faces peeking out from behind their blankets, “And get Agnes to make you some cocoa - tell her Miss Frye sent you.” 

There was a chorus of _thank you miss_ es and the children scampered away, blankets wrapped around them like capes. 

“You’re going to be a great mother some day,” Jacob murmured when Evie stood up, nudging her. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

***

The twins had decided, while sitting on top of Nelson’s hat on his column in Trafalgar Square, to visit Arthur King’s widow themselves. 

“I’m sure Holmes didn’t tell us everything,” Jacob said, watching the people far below. “He’s too clever for that.” 

“Hmph.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Evie said, looking up. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still thick with gray clouds. 

Jacob elbowed her. “What is it?” 

“It’s just that soon you’ll be kissing the ground at Holmes’ feet. And don’t jostle me,” she grumbled, “I’ll fall off.”

Jacob laughed. “Like the way you treat Henry, you mean?” Evie glared at him. “And there isn’t really a vacancy - Holmes already has a faithful lapdog in the good Dr Watson.” Jacob stretched. “No, I’ll always be my own man. Not even the Assassins can pin me down.” 

“I just think you need some more healthy distrust, that’s all,” said Evie. “Come on, it’s about teatime. I’ll bet you anything Mrs King is the type of woman who only serves the best biscuits.” 

***

Evie was right. As soon as Mrs King had shown them into her parlour, she rang for a maid who brought in a silver tray heaped with biscuits and cakes and iced buns. Neither one would have dared complain, but it looked far better than the dry shortbread Agnes kept in a tin in one of her desk drawers nestled beside her spare pen nibs. 

“You’re from Arthur’s company?” Mrs King said as she sat down on the sofa carefully, like a woman at least twice her own age. Her eyes were pink and she kept dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. “I recognized your uniforms.” 

“Yes, pest control,” said Evie through a mouthful of custard tart, remembering what Holmes had said. “The company is doing an internal investigation of your husband’s -” she swallowed “- passing.”

“Oh! But I already hired a private investigator. How do you two take your tea?” She asked as she began to pour it into the cups.

“Black, three sugars for both of us,” Jacob said, reaching for a fruit scone. “It’s company policy, madam. By the by, what’s your given name?” He asked, taking a large bite. 

Mrs King looked puzzled. “Helen, but why do you ask?” 

Jacob just shrugged, chewing. 

“What can you tell us about your husband?” Evie asked, cradling her teacup in both hands. 

Mrs King related all that Holmes had told them earlier, her eyes bright as she talked about her husband, her handkerchief resting in her lap while she rambled until she was out of breath. Then she paused. “There is something else,” she said hesitantly, “And I would not say it, and in doing so bring disgrace upon myself and my dear Arthur, unless I thought it was important. And I do.” She wiped at her nose again. 

“Yes?” Jacob asked, leaning forward and accidentally spilling his tea on himself. He hurriedly placed the cup back in its saucer, wincing. 

“Oh dear - I acted so shamefully, it hurts me to look back on it now.” The widow sighed, looking into her lap, the hand that clutched her handkerchief in its fist. “I had promised myself, the day I was married, looking at myself in the mirror, in my lace wedding dress and veil - they were so beautiful, you know; my mother made them. I felt like a fairy princess. I can still fit into my dress. I try it on sometimes, when Arthur’s out -” 

“Please, continue,” Evie said, laying a hand on the woman’s knee. 

She blinked a few times. “I - I made a promise to myself, that I wouldn’t be that kind of wife. The one who tortures herself by being constantly suspicious of her husband, the paranoid wreck. I vowed that I would trust my husband unconditionally.” Out of the corner of her eye, Evie saw Jacob roll his eyes, chin in his hand. “But - ever since he started going to that opium den, I felt that I couldn’t trust him that way anymore. So I - I searched his room.” She flushed. “I know it was wrong of me to do so, but I wanted to help rid him of that demon, that drug. I thought I might find some in there, and then I could destroy it. But I didn’t find any opium. I found - this,” she said, her voice wavering, pulling a folded piece of paper from between the couch cushions. She handed it to Evie. 

_J, my darling,_ she read, _I miss you terribly. I need you terribly. Without you, it hurts to breathe. I swear I will collect the money you asked me for soon. But it is so hard to concentrate without you near. Lovingly, Arthur._

“But he never sent it,” Evie murmured. “Take heart, Mrs King. Your husband still cared enough for you that he could restrain himself from giving this to whomever it was intended for. That means he still had his conscience, and he still loved you.” 

“Do you really think so?” Asked the widow, her eyes shining with tears. 

“I do,” said Evie firmly. “Now my associate and I will bid you good day, Mrs King. I am certain we will find your husband’s murderer soon and bring them to justice.” And she curtsied as her grandmother had taught her. 

“You’re such a lady,” Jacob said out of the corner of his mouth as they walked down from Mrs King’s flat. “If only she knew that a handful of days ago you had your knife through a man’s neck.”

“Don’t forget, dear brother, I still have that knife with me, and I will use it if you dare call me a lady again.” 

***

“So, J wasn’t Arthur King’s wife, but his mistress, and she was the one he wrote that other note to,” Jacob mused as they walked. The morning’s rain had collected itself as puddles on the street, which Evie avoided and Jacob took satisfaction in walking through in his heavy boots. 

“That doesn’t mean J’s the murderer,” Evie pointed out. 

“I know that!” Jacob said. “But she was asking him for money.”

“But why would she want to kill Arthur if he was giving her money? As his mistress, she wouldn't benefit from his death. The exact opposite, in fact. If I were her, I’d want to keep him alive, and keep stealing his money from his pocket with my charms.” 

“And was J the woman he met at The Dancing Bear?” Jacob wondered. “Or was it Helen King? And why was she wearing a veil? Was it a disguise, or does this mystery woman have leprosy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Investigating’s exhausting work,” Jacob said, stretching. “I say we return to the train until we’re due to meet up with Holmes and Watson again later.” 

Evie agreed, and they had just settled, Evie with her notebook, Jacob toying with his blade, when there was a knock at the door and Henry swung into the train car. 

“Mr Green!” Evie stood up. “You have news?” 

Henry nodded gravely. “Arthur King’s legs have been found.” 

“What! Where?” Jacob cried, standing up too. 

“They washed up on the bank of the Thames - a man discovered them when his dog fetched one for him.” 

Jacob chuckled. “So I was close when I said a dog had eaten them!” 

“Enough, Jacob.” Evie chastised. “We have news too, Henry,” she added, and related all they had learned to him.

“So, you met the infamous Sherlock Holmes,” Henry said when she had finished, intrigued. 

“‘Infamous’? I’d never heard of him before!” Jacob protested. “Neither had Evie.” 

“Neither of you have much time to read the Strand Magazine, I’m sure,” Henry said, “But I make it my business to know everyone of importance in London. Besides that, you seem to have found a lot of threads.” 

“That all lead nowhere,” said Evie glumly. “Hopefully Mr Holmes and Dr Watson will be able add something when we meet them tonight.” She looked at her pocket watch. It had been her father’s, and she remembered playing with it as a little girl, sitting on his knee. It was old, the metal scratched and the face cracked, yes, but if there had been a fire it would have the one thing she would save. She polished it (and her pistol) every morning. She still thought of her father when she looked at it. “Speaking of, it’s about time you and I leave, Jacob,” she said, but Jacob was already gone, calling back to her: 

“I’ll see you there, slowpoke!” 

Evie rolled her eyes and dashed after him. 

***

The Dancing Bear was a different place at night, a firework hubbub of people and noise. People laughed, sang, drank beer, spilled in and out of the doorway. Evie and Jacob squeezed past to see Watson signalling to them from the table he and Holmes were sitting at by the door. Holmes was looking sour, his shoulders hunched. 

“Can I get you anything, Mr and Miss Frye?” Watson asked amiably as they sat down. “A pint or two?” 

“That would be lovely,” Evie replied, and the doctor pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. 

“Well, Mr Holmes,” Jacob said, leaning towards him, “any ideas?” 

“Many, Mr Frye,” the detective replied, “each one more implausible than the next. There’s something I’m missing, but it’s hard to find something if you don’t know what it is.” 

“I think it’s the widow,” Jacob said cheerily, “She gets rid of a lousy husband, and gains all his money.” 

“She certainly has the most motive,” Holmes replied, “but what purpose would she have for dismembering her husband after his death?” 

“Perhaps she wanted it to look like the work of a serial killer,” Jacob suggested. 

“That would require killing at least one more victim in the same manner,” Holmes said, amused, “Too much hard work, unless she copied the motif of one already at work, of which there are plenty to choose from, most which do not require homemade amputation. Besides which, if Mr King was indeed having trouble paying off his opium debts, I doubt that there will be much money left for Mrs King to hoard.” 

“Or it might have been revenge,” Evie said, looking Holmes in the eye, “after she found out about his mistress.” 

“Ah. So you visited the good lady King yourselves.” Holmes said, a twinkle in his eye, “So you will agree with me when I say that I do not think she has the nerves nor the strength to cut off an adult man’s legs.”

Before Evie could respond, Jacob broke in: “Could the woman in the veil have been…” He paused dramatically. “...a man?” 

Evie looked cross, but Holmes leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “An interesting theory, Mr Frye. Yes, I think it is plausible, if it were a small man. I admit I hadn’t considered that before.” 

Jacob blushed, grinning foolishly. 

At that moment, Watson came back, empty handed. 

“Watson!” Barked Holmes. “I’m surprised at you! Where are our friends’ drinks?” 

“Don’t look at me, Holmes,” Watson protested, drawing out his chair and sitting down. “The barman recognized me and insisted he would bring them over himself.” 

“We were just discussing the mysterious murder of Arthur King,” Holmes told him. “You examined the body with a medical eye. What is your opinion of his wounds?” 

“His legs were cut off with a sharp tool, whether it be an axe, a saw, a medieval sword, or some other weapon.” 

“Showing premeditation,” Holmes commented. “If it had been heated, of-the-moment vengeance, than the killer would have done the deed with whatever dull axe he could find. As it was, they came prepared. They had sharpened the weapon beforehand, thinking of Arthur King as they grinded the blade.” 

Watson shuddered. “That’s horrible.” He looked at the twins. “I don’t suppose, er, it could have been one of your enemies that killed him? I mean, an enemy of the Assassins?”  
Evie shook her head. “Highly unlikely.” 

“But there is still a chance.” Watson looked to Holmes for agreement, but his friend was staring into the flickering candle flame, lost in his own thoughts.

“There you are!” 

Holmes jumped. They looked up to see the bartender, smiling toothily. “I was hoping to see you again, sir,” he said, addressing Holmes as he passed around their drinks, “You see, I remembered something else about that gentleman you were asking about, only I lost your card.” 

“Well, what is it, man?” Holmes demanded. 

“It’s about the lady he was with, sir. She had a peculiar accent. She sounded foreign, like she was from the Far East or summat.”


End file.
